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  “Then why do you still have it?”

  I looked at her, my spoon held halfway to my mouth. “That’s a good question. I’ll have to think about that.”

  This time she completed her eye roll. “Later,” she said, exiting the kitchen with Jack’s swaying walk.

  I’d just settled into my favorite armchair in the parlor with my cup of decaf coffee (my stash of the real stuff having apparently been discovered and disposed of) when the doorbell rang. I groaned. It seemed the doorbell worked only when it wanted to. Nola was busy practicing her scales and hadn’t heard it, so I hoisted myself from my chair and made my way to the door. The shimmer of pink through the Tiffany glass told me who it was, and I was about to quietly back away and hide, but General Lee had other plans. He began to throw his small, furry body against the door and started whimpering.

  “Melanie? It’s Rebecca. Are you in there? I can’t tell if your doorbell is working or not.”

  I looked down at Mrs. Houlihan’s capris and my father’s T-shirt and I knew this wouldn’t end well. Resigned to my fate, I unlocked the door and opened it.

  My cousin, Rebecca Edgerton, stood in a vision of pink—pink sundress and pink cotton sweater tossed elegantly over her shoulders, with white pearls at her throat highlighting a delicate tan. And at her feet, attached to Rebecca by a thin strip of pink leather leash, sat a miniature version of General Lee, albeit a version who wore things like a rhinestone-studded pink collar and tiny pink bows attached to both ears. General Lee immediately shot over to the small dog and the two began a frenzy of nose touching and butt sniffing.

  Rebecca tugged on the leash, an expression of disgust marring her perfect features. “Pucci—bad girl. That is not showing nice manners.”

  “Poochie?” I repeated, hoping that’s not what I’d actually heard.

  “Spelled P-U-C-C-I—like the Italian designer. Since General Lee loves me so much, I thought I should get a dog of my own. And see? General Lee likes having a sister.”

  I eyed my dog, thinking that a sister relationship wasn’t exactly what he was thinking about. Then I trained my gaze on my cousin—albeit a distant one—realizing that getting a dog was the closest a person ever got to picking one’s own relatives.

  Without waiting to be asked, Rebecca brushed past me and into the vestibule, Pucci prancing faithfully behind her in a movement that I was sure was meant to entice my dog. I picked up General Lee and patted his head just to let him know that all females weren’t bitches.

  “Is there something you need?” I asked, closing the door behind me. Ever since my huge blowup with Jack when he’d confronted me about my knowledge of why his book had lost its publisher—and which Rebecca had witnessed—I’d been avoiding her, wanting to block the whole scene from my memory. Apparently she had no such qualms.

  Her gaze slowly took in my fuzzy slippers, baggy capris, and giant T-shirt, ending at my face with an expression that said, Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  “I’m assuming all pregnancies don’t look like that, or the human race would have ended long ago.” She shook her head slowly. “You know, if you want Jack back, you’re going to have to try a little harder. He likes his women fit and groomed.” She smiled brightly, as if personifying the perfect Jack-woman, and I wondered whether I could blame pregnancy hormones for any physical acts of violence enacted upon another person.

  “Thank you, Rebecca, as always, for your keen insight. Now, if you only came over to say hello, then let’s get it over with. I’ve got work to do.”

  “How can you think over that racket?” she asked, her head indicating the music room.

  “Nola’s practicing, and she’s quite good. I actually enjoy listening to her.”

  Rebecca raised her eyebrow just like Scarlett O’Hara had in the scene at Ashley’s surprise party. I wondered momentarily whether my cousin was one of those adolescents who’d practiced the look in the mirror. Or knew that she’d be left with a permanent wrinkle there when she was older. I decided to let her figure that out on her own.

  She turned and began walking down the hallway toward the rear of the house. “Let’s go to the kitchen—Pucci needs some water. And we need to talk.”

  Rebecca’s “gift”—or whatever you wanted to call it—involved her dreams, in which she saw the future being played out in living color. I was about to ask her what she’d seen when my attention was caught by the flash of light from her left hand as she tugged on the leash.

  I followed her into the kitchen before grabbing her left hand. “What’s this?”

  She splayed her fingers out in front of me so I could better see the rock she wore in a platinum setting on her third finger. “From Marc. We’re getting married.”

  I felt my cereal stir in my stomach. It wasn’t that I regretted that I had let Marc Longo go—I didn’t even particularly like him, especially after his slick deal to steal Jack’s story. It wasn’t even that I was jealous of Rebecca, who was younger, prettier, slimmer—and now engaged. I could be wearing Jack’s ring on my finger. He’d asked, after all. It was just that her life was so . . . settled. And mine was up in the air like a juggler’s pins. At least—and I couldn’t believe I was even thinking this—I had my house. It was the one constant in my life that was guaranteed to never stop needing me. The thought brought me enough comfort to smile.

  “Congratulations,” I said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “When’s the big day?”

  “We’re still working out the details, but the date’s set for March twenty-second. No church decided on yet, but we already booked Alhambra Hall for the reception—you have no idea how hard it is to get a reservation there! And I’d like you to be a bridesmaid.” She beamed as if just announcing that I’d been canonized.

  “I, um, the baby might be due around then. . . .”

  “Oh, you’ll look just adorable all round and pregnant up there at the altar. So I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I blinked at her, wondering whether being engaged affected women the same way pregnancy did and had deleted a few of her brain cells. “But what if—”

  I was cut off by her screech. “Pucci! You are not that kind of girl!”

  I turned around to see General Lee trying to climb up the smaller dog’s back, and she didn’t seem to be protesting overly much.

  Rebecca gathered her tiny dog up in her arms. “Can’t a girl get a drink without getting molested? I hope General Lee has at least been neutered.”

  “I have no idea. I inherited him, remember.”

  “You mean you’ve never looked?”

  “Of course not. Besides, I figure he’s too old to, um, perform.”

  Rebecca pursed her lips and took a deep breath. “May I have some water, Melanie? I’m parched.”

  I sat down at the table. “Of course. And would you please get me one, too, while you’re at it?”

  With a malevolent glare, she dumped Pucci into my lap and took two glasses from the cabinet. She left the dog in my lap when she returned with the water.

  She sat down, her spine straight as if she wore a corset, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether she did. It wouldn’t have surprised me at all.

  “Do you ever answer your phone, Melanie?”

  “Only my cell phone. I know, I should get rid of the landline. I’ve already had this conversation today.”

  “What about phone messages at the office? Do you ever return those?”

  I considered that for a moment. “If it’s a potential or existing client, always. If it’s on my list of people I don’t want to speak with, the receptionist knows not to bother taking a message. I’ve trained Nancy Flaherty very well.” And she pretty much went by the rules except where Jack was concerned. I always got his messages, whether or not I wanted them.

  She took a sip of her water. “Does your list include reporters?”

  “Top of the list. Right under insurance salesmen and people wanting a séance.”

  “Well, that explains a lot. One of my colleague
s, Suzy Dorf, has been trying to get ahold of you.”

  “I never speak with reporters, remember? I only speak to you because you’re a relative.”

  She raised her eyebrow again and I was happy to see the crease in her skin remain even after she lowered it. “Well, I’m glad I came. She’s writing the featured story in this Sunday’s edition of the Post and Courier. It’s about Mr. Vanderhorst.”

  “Mr. Vanderhorst? My Mr. Vanderhorst?”

  “The very same. All Suzy needed to know is what you’d decided to do about the house. The will stipulated that you needed to live in it a year before you could sell it. It’s been well over a year.”

  I stared at her. How could I have forgotten? From the first moment I’d read the stipulations in Mr. Vanderhorst’s will, I’d been counting the days until I could lift this albatross from my neck and be free of it for good. But somewhere along the way, in the middle of refinishing floors, replacing fixtures, replastering walls, and shoring up a sagging foundation, I’d lost track. Because tucked into those projects, nearly hidden by the daily anxieties of money and more repairs, were my beautiful garden, the growth chart of a small boy scratched into the parlor wall, the comforting smell of beeswax, and the sighs of all the people who’d lived and loved in this house who couldn’t quite say good-bye.

  “I, um, don’t know. I’ve had other things to worry about.” I smoothed my hands over my stomach. “It’s not like I had to sell it after a year. I can sell it at any time. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  She sent me a knowing look. “I don’t know, Melanie. You look pretty entrenched, if you ask me. This house is so, well, you. It’s sort of quirky and idiosyncratic, and despite its age can still look good with a little work.”

  I wondered fleetingly whether a jury of twelve pregnant women of a certain age would ever convict me. Pucci looked up at me from my lap, her round brown eyes full of alarm.

  I unclenched my fists. “Is that all, Rebecca? I really do need to get back to work.”

  She stood and gathered her little dog into her arms. “Almost. I’ll be sure to pass on what you told me to Suzy just in case she needs it for the article.”

  “Fine, whatever. What else?” I stood and headed back toward the kitchen door.

  “I had a dream.”

  I paused. “About what?”

  “A cradle. Two, actually. And there was a woman, but her back was to me. I didn’t think it was you, though—she was very petite. But I got the impression that she was really pissed about something. I was wondering if you had any idea what it meant.”

  I took a deep breath, my skin tightening over my bones. With a light tone, I said, “Everybody seems to be into cradles these days. We have an old Vanderhorst one in the attic, and apparently Julia Manigault left one for me in her will.”

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing. It wasn’t an attractive expression, and I saw that the lines between her brows didn’t completely go away when she spoke, either. Good. “Interesting,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I have any more dreams.”

  “You do that,” I said as I opened the front door. General Lee yipped, and I picked him up so he could say good-bye to his new friend.

  “What’s that smell?” Rebecca asked.

  I looked at General Lee, but his face was blank. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “It’s like roses. You don’t smell that? It’s really strong.”

  “It could be from the garden—the Louisa roses are still blooming.”

  She gave me a speculative glance. “You know, they say that pregnancy hormones can dull or even sometimes completely eradicate certain supernatural gifts in some people. Maybe that’s why you’re not smelling it.”

  “Maybe.” I said good-bye, then closed the door. I put a whimpering General Lee on the floor with a pat of assurance that he’d see Pucci again, then straightened as I breathed in deeply without catching the scent of roses.

  I walked slowly toward the parlor, where I’d left my laptop and now cold coffee, and sat down. I stayed there for a long while just listening to Nola playing the piano, wondering whether what Rebecca had said was true, about my sixth sense taking a pregnancy hiatus, and trying to decide whether I was happy about it. A cold chill brushed my neck and I closed my eyes, thinking that I might be.

  CHAPTER 8

  My mother held up what appeared to be a red knit muumuu in one gloved hand and an identical blue one in the other. “These would look beautiful on you, Mellie. I think you should try them.”

  “Right. And when I’m done with them, I can let Mrs. Houlihan wear them, because they’d probably fit her.”

  My mother closed her eyes as if trying to summon strength. “Darling, if you’d just give these a try. Look.” She stuck the red one closer to me. “See the deep scoop neckline? It will show off your décolleté to advantage, drawing the eye upward instead of around your middle. You can wear it bare or with a great necklace, or even a bright scarf.”

  I stared at the expanse of knit, actually seeing what she wanted me to, but still resisting the idea that my new size was closer to Mrs. Houlihan’s than the clothes that hung in my own closet. And expanding daily.

  She continued. “And you know how much Jack likes you in red.” Her eyes sparkled.

  “I’ll try the blue one on, but you can hang up the red one.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “It’s not like he can get you pregnant again right now, so you might as well.” Hanging on to both tops, she moved to the next rack and started flipping through the hangers. “So, how’s Detective Riley?”

  I pretended to study the fabric of a nursing bra—a contraption I couldn’t quite figure out. “Except for the small indentation in his forehead from my flying button, he seemed to be well.”

  “So it was a nice date?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t a date. We just went to dinner to talk about the investigation. Then he told me a little bit about his childhood and I told him a little bit about mine, and then he drove me home. Not even an attempt at a kiss good night, so definitely not a date. How did you hear about it?”

  “Amelia. She’s heartbroken about you and Jack but refuses to interfere. By the way, she has some beautiful furniture that just came into the store, which would be perfect in a nursery, and she wants you to come look at it. She has it on hold, because she knows it will be swept up very quickly.”

  “Mother, you know I don’t do antique furniture. Remember what happened with the dollhouse.”

  Our eyes met as we both recalled the antique dollhouse Amelia had given to Nola, the dollhouse that, unbeknownst to us at the time, harbored an entire family of restless spirits.

  “Actually, it’s brand-new. She went to an estate sale, and an entire nursery of furniture—the tags still on it—was included. It’s really high-end, and all mahogany, so it would look beautiful in your house. Or Jack’s,” she added as an afterthought, managing to slide in a note of disapproval.

  Ignoring it, I said, “I guess I can go look at it. As long as it’s not an antique cradle. I’ve already got one more than I need.”

  She looked at me oddly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . .”

  “Mother, have you been talking with Rebecca? She’s already told me about her dream about the two cradles and the angry woman, if that’s what you’re not wanting to tell me.”

  She seemed startled. “Actually, no. But thanks for telling me. What else did she have to say?”

  “That’s pretty much it. And that the woman definitely wasn’t me, because she was petite.”

  My mother nodded as she turned back to the rack, but I could tell that she was no longer focused on maternity clothes.

  I stepped closer to her. “Then what is it?”

  Her mouth tightened. “I spoke with your grandmother.”

  We were both silent for a moment as we considered that only the two of us, and perhaps Rebecca, would think a conversation about receiving a
phone call from beyond the grave was normal.

  “She said she’s been calling you, but you haven’t been answering the phone.”

  I shook my head, not wanting to have the same conversation again. “What did she want?”

  “She says you need to be careful. And to not be afraid to ask for help—from all sources.”

  She gave me a meaningful glance, and I remembered how Rebecca had smelled roses in my house and I hadn’t.

  “Do spirits come out of retirement when they feel they’re needed?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  I began flipping through a rack of what seemed to be more brightly colored muumuus and giant tent-shaped dresses and pants with pouches. “Remember how I always could tell Louisa Vanderhorst was about to make an appearance because I smelled roses? Rebecca smelled roses when she was at my house, so I was wondering if maybe Louisa might think I needed her. The baby was found in her house, too, after all.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But why didn’t you smell the roses?”

  “I don’t know. Rebecca says that sometimes pregnancy can mask certain gifts. Is that true?”

  My mother regarded me for a long moment, then placed her gloved hand on my arm. “Yes. With me, anyway. When I was pregnant with you, I didn’t need to wear gloves—at least from the second trimester on. I could still sense things when I touched certain objects, but there was a kind of filter between them and me. Maybe it’s Mother Nature’s way of protecting the baby from stress.”

  “But it came back after I was born.”

  “Pretty much the same day. I took a pen from a nurse to sign my release papers from the hospital, and I could see her mother in the cancer ward on the third floor. Except her mother was at home and healthy at the time, as far as she knew.”

  “Was it nice? Not having to deal with it for a few months?”

  Her eyes were grave. “No. I thought it might be, but instead it was like having a missing limb. Or being separated from my child.”